


Phangst: Capital Punishment

by ShadesOfGrey



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I abused my enter key, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Karma hits hard, No Editing Gang, Sad Ending, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesOfGrey/pseuds/ShadesOfGrey
Summary: Kieran just wants a moment with Lauren, just a single minute extra, before he's dragged off to Hell. Lauren, on the other hand, isn't as willing for a talk.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair & Kieran White
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Phangst: Capital Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Murder, description of hanging, blood/gore
> 
> I wrote this in one sitting while waiting for the newest chapter of Purple Hyacinth to come out, do I regret it? Maybe. Did I sleep deprive myself while doing so? Yeah. Do I regret it? Maybe, maybe not. The world will never know, just like Kieran will never know —
> 
> oops, spoilers

Ardhalis.

A city that flicked between peace, where all was fine and resting, and crime. Hideous, cruel crime; actions that could range from petty thievery to blatant, first degree murder. Ardhalis, a city that only recently surged through numerous murders, all them reported under the same, bloodied name:

_ The Purple Hyacinth _ .

A symbol, a title. Bound to a single, clever assassin, one who made their kills as swift as their movements. 

The same assassin that enjoyed dances under the pale moonlight. The scents of flowers; holding a pencil lightly and crafting sketches, drawings, buildings; listening to calming, gentle music. The same, cold-hearted assassin who, one quiet night, met with a just-as-quiet woman for a simple talk.

“Sinclair,” the assassin murmured, “you’ve made it, what a pleasant surprise.”

Lauren Sinclair crossed her arms. She raised her chin and kept a stoic gaze, wary of the danger. The streets were quiet, too quiet, for her liking. “Kieran White,” she stiffly replied. “I thought you’d never arrive.”

Kieran gave a willing smile, unfazed by the monotone in Lauren’s voice. Stepping around her, he whispered into her ears; “have you heard? The rumors that drift with the wind, the newspaper that fly across the streets.”

“Have I got ears, you mean?” Lauren bitterly corrected. “Of  _ course  _ I have, you dolt. You’ll be arrested. Justice will hammer you into the ground. Good luck wiggling your way out of  _ that _ one, what with law burning on your heels.”

With the smile, came a light, soft chuckle. “I never thought the day’d come, when I’d have to face the people behind your back.”

“Neither would I. I’d expect them to be reduced to mere corpses by today.”

“Perhaps they would be.”

A silence fell between the two. Kieran continued to move, dragging his hand along the bridge underside. Cold, rough stone. The texture stamped itself into Kieran’s voice, eroding away at it and his will; “Lauren, Lauren, my days are numbered. For all I know, I may wake up tomorrow behind bars. I’ve arranged this last meeting to ask you something.”

“All this effort for a mere question?”

Waving the remark off, Kieran stopped moving, leaning against the stone wall. “Together, time alone in my apartment. Just a moment with the two of us. Can I ask for that?”

Scowling, Lauren couldn’t quite find the reasoning to the question. 

“Just that, and only that,” Kieran added, quieter, as if giving up on the thought of it. There was no lie in those words, no distrust nor trickery. So, feeling saddened and guilty, Lauren piped up with a small smile and an agreement.

Across the cold, empty streets, Kieran, a fabled assassin with far too much blood on his hands, led Lauren Sinclair to his apartment. An eeriness drifted about, though not from the lingering murder; instead, it was something else. What, Lauren couldn’t exactly tell, but an arrogance reminded her she wouldn’t be killed.

Kieran’s room was awfully… empty. Emptier than Lauren last recalled. Almost everything had been moved or taken away, possibly confiscated. All that remained were a few select, crooked books on a nearby bookshelf, scattered papers, an occasional chair. Kieran wasn’t bothered by this disorganization, however.

He made do. Pulling along a low table, Kieran snatched two chairs to accompany it. Some food scavenged from his fridge rest on the table’s surface, along with two of the very few remaining books. 

“I’ll whip something up quickly,” he explained, sounding sorry and apologetic for the lack of supplies. In the kitchen, a weary, old light shone its pathetic yellow over a busy man trying to make coffee.

Lauren glanced around, then took a seat by the makeshift table. It was strange to think she was in a killer’s apartment, to recognize that Kieran, the murderous  _ Purple Hyacinth _ , was scolding a coffee pot. Struggling with some wires. It was strange still to think that his cockiness had caught up, his laziness, and that he’d only been caught because he was lousy enough to let himself be seen. 

Noticed, running away. Fleeing from the scene, fresh blood on his hands.

“Well,” Lauren scoffed to herself, picking up a book. The paperback cover was flimsy, the paper inside soft, indicating that it’s been a very long time since purchase. “You can’t run away from everything.”

“Hmm?”

Kieran poked into the room, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee and matching cups of ramen. Chopsticks stuck from the tops, peeking through the plastic cover. “Run away from what?”

Suddenly interested in the ramen, Lauren picked up another topic. Evershifting conversations seemed to become a specialty between them. “Ramen. You’ve truly fallen from what you’ve once eaten, haven’t you?” 

“Heh.” Kieran twirled around his chopsticks, stirring around the heated ramen. “You could say that.”

Not much conversation could be exchanged between the two. Kieran seemed sadder that night, wallowing in silence. Whenever he tried to speak, his lips parting and a few exhaled words escaping, he’d immediately replace any conversation with ramen noodles. 

When Lauren finally spoke, it was with the intent of an interrogation. “So, why choose to be here, of all places?”

“Why not?” Kieran replied simply. “Besides, I can’t think of any fancy restaurants open at this dreary time.”

Another drawing silence. Not much to do, not much to say. Kieran, apparently having finished, set his chopsticks down. 

“Thanks,” he half-heartedly mumbled. “You’re free to head home, and if I must, I’ll escort you there.”

Lauren shook her head and denied the offer, hesitantly standing. She wasn’t finished with her coffee, ramen,  _ or _ questions, but it seemed Kieran most certainly was. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then,” Lauren declared, turning to head off. She’d kept the single, only book her hands stroked over that entire night, as well as a red apple. Stopped from leaving too quickly, Kieran placed a single, silver key in her hands, then wrapped her fingers around it. Gently, he asked her to keep it, as a just-in-case. Lauren, although skeptical, wasn’t against the action.

She wasn’t a liar, that late night, when she said she would. Despite that, it was still difficult to walk; every, forced footstep dragged along a chain and ball. An uneasiness locked into her head, a dizziness in her eyes. Shaky breaths that were short, quick, and anxious. Her lungs, possibly deprived of oxygen, were on the brink of collapsing.

Another day is like a new beginning. 

The bright, burning sun above wasn’t a deterrent to Lauren’s determination. She’d been too scared that morning to return to Kieran’s apartment, and wanted to know for certain if, really, today was the last day. In the blazing heat, Lauren Sinclair was running as fast as ever. 

“Today, I know it’s a new start,” she heaved, frightened with a dread on her mind. “I know the bad times are disappearing, that we’ll be rid of scum…”

Across the roads, through the crowds. Ignoring the protests of those she ran by or feet she’s stepped on. At one point, dangerously leaping over someone’s dog. Even then, as she risked and dared, Lauren arrived on Kieran’s street moments before he’d been hassled into a car.

Kieran wasn’t arguing, fighting, or, frankly, doing  _ anything _ . Handcuffs forcing his wrists together, he willingly let himself be pushed into a car and locked away. Only one last glance, a quick scour around, to find that Lauren was there, still there, had Kieran try and resist.

“Just one minute,” he begged weakly, “please,  _ please _ …”

His pleading was either unheard or ignored, as it wasn’t acted upon. Lauren watched, a sense of failure in her heart, as the Purple Hyacinth was taken away. Just like that. An assassin, once feared by Ardhalis, once a maniac murderer…  _ gone _ .

Suppressing the want to collapse and do absolutely nothing, Lauren figured she may as well retrieve whatever she could from Kieran’s apartment. That is, before it was ransacked, before the police took away all his possessions and burned them to ashes. 

The silver key from last night fit into the door’s lock with ease. A click, an unlock, and then pushing the door open. All, simple and smooth.

In the pouring, saturated sunlight, Lauren became well aware why Kieran hadn’t turned on all the lights. If he had, she’d have noticed all the paintings, the drawings, the mess on the walls much sooner. She’d have seen the red, spilled across planks, the words and scrawled writing. Sensed the mania in every syllable, every scribbled letter.

It wasn’t comprehensive, but Lauren could make out a few repeating phrases:  _ please, please, please _ , again and again.  _ Don’t hurt her. Don’t kill her. Kill me instead. _

_ Kill me. _

_ Kill me. _

The stench of old blood was muffled by cooked ramen last night; this morning, it was muffled by an aroma of sickeningly sweet flowers. Plants were tucked into the corners of the rooms, pages torn out from books and buried into their soft dirt. Different splashes of paint were dropped onto large, green leaves, causing them to droop down and drip different, dried colors. It seemed to replace any proper flowers.

Kieran’s desk had a scatter of papers, mixing from cardstock, printer paper, and simple line paper, all of them with drawings, sketches. Colored, shaded, clean linework, or a mix of it all. On a few sheets, Lauren’s face was the central focus. On others, it was a variety of different things; flowers, buildings, scenery. 

“Kieran,” Lauren murmured, picking them up. She stole some deserted paperclips and kept it all together, tucking it into a plastic binder. The stench of blood was becoming clearer to her, now, after all of this… looking around.

Unable to bear it, Lauren Sinclair left the room. She took nothing else, and left nothing of her own. 

The binder, the smells, the reminders of past, distant memories — they were all Lauren had. Sometimes, while walking the streets, she could feel someone thrust a sword into her heart, and would instinctively gaze to the Tower of Ardhalis. It felt like so long ago, when Kieran had climbed that thing, his sword in hand, a trail of bloodied flowers in his wake. The horrified screams of murder. The way he’d slaughtered them all like mere pigs.

Now, he too was up there, at the highest floor it had to offer. Locked up, possibly put in a straitjacket. No human interaction. No sounds. No way to gaze out into the sunset, looking over the moving clouds and cycling sun. Up there, Kieran was one of the forbidden night stars, sparkling and shining. So close, yet so far away.

“You’re the one that makes me feel so high,” Lauren murmured to herself, doing a patrol around the streets. She’d specifically asked for this particular shift, wanting to get as close as possible to Kieran’s presence. The others hadn’t argued. Maybe they recognized she had a strong, mourning connection to him, still in disbelief that Kieran White was the Purple Hyacinth. Maybe they simply didn’t want to be close.

“Just like the diamonds in the sky…”

If Lauren had heard Kieran mumbling to himself, her stress and pain might’ve been alleviated. Although he most certainly wasn’t a popstar singer, he sang softly to himself, whispering gentle reminders. He clung onto his memories, the image of Lauren’s face constant. 

Hell, he’d repeated the name “Lauren Sinclair” so often to himself the sounds became foreign. Even then, Kieran didn’t give up. He’d sit with his back propped against the tower’s walls, alone, on the ground, hearing the muffled jeers and boos from down below. 

Don’t cry, he’d frequently scold himself. Lauren was there in spirit. Crying was for weaklings. To cry would mean to give up, and he refused to give up.

A week had passed. Lauren lifted her head and moved her feet, continuing to march and move. Peace had befell the streets since the Purple Hyacinth’s fall. No other assassin seemed to match the sway along Kieran’s step, the way he was stealthy, quick. Unable to be caught, until he wanted to be.

“Cause you’re my diamond in the sky,” Lauren audibly said, speaking only to herself. She still had the mug from so long ago. It was blank, with no words at all, but still an item she cherished. Taking a hot sip of coffee from it, she proceeded to immediately spit it out.

Kym laughed happily nearby. “C’mon, what’s with the sour face? What, do you cut up lemons and eat them in your free time? Let’s go, the theatre’s got a new play and I have tickets.”

While the theatre was filled with cheers, cheers of both Kieran’s isolation and a new freedom, Kieran struggled to keep himself sane. Whereas Ardhalis was rid of a heaviness, a fearful fog that clouded their actions and trembled their sleep, Kieran had shouldered all those burdens.

“Where do all the rainbows go?” Kieran White whispered. His arms were tied around him thanks to a straitjacket, but it didn’t keep him from trying to hug himself. Even if he couldn’t move, he felt as if it worked. “To somewhere, I don’t know.”

Shutting his eyes, Kieran rocked back and forth. No crying. Crying was for the weak. He wasn’t weak.

“Wherever it is, I want to go.”

Another week, then that time doubled. Lauren felt as if she were swimming. In whatever pool she’d been shoved into (or maybe, from the deepness and darkness, it was an ocean), she became acutely aware she was unable to swim. Still, Lauren thrashed and struggled. Kicked and threw out her arms, scooping at the water. Now, she was able to barely keep her head above the surface, bobbing up and down. 

Water still made it into her lungs, but at least she wasn’t fully submerged. She was alive, for now. Surviving.

Surviving’s all Lauren can do.

Two and a half months since Kieran’s arrest. 

New assassins have popped into the neighborhoods, crashing through windows and slitting throats. None were as good as the scared Purple Hyacinth. They were all mediocre at best.

Lauren had attempted to fill the void in her heart by buying flowers. She trimmed the stems, stirred in flower food with the water. Bought special vases with details in the glass. Trying to reminder her that Kieran was alive, Kieran was okay, that as long as he was okay — 

As the flowers wilted, blooming for a short while before their petals fell and their leaves darkened, so did Kieran. 

The Purple Hyacinth had lost track of time. He was hardly spoken to, wasn’t interacted with. Someone pushed open the heavy, metal door to bring a tray of food. Guards stood at the entrance with guns and tasers. The bringer would feed Kieran minimal food, stale bread and oversalted meat, old vegetables and near-expired greens. Accepted blindly, the bringer would force the nutrients down Kieran’s lowered head.

That was it.

That was all of someone else Kieran got to see, and even then, they all wore masks.

No words, no conversations. Maybe he’d hear them sneer and snicker about his state, but nothing else.

Nothing else.

“Nothing else,” Kieran rasped. “Lauren Sinclair, I know you’re out there, somewhere, and I know I’ll see you, one day. Whether it be when we cross paths as I make way to hell, or… in this lifetime. I hope it’s this lifetime.”

He smiled, thinly, and tried his best to break it across his face. Tried to grin ear-to-ear. He did, eventually, manage the smile, but it faded almost immediately after.

Three months.

Four.

Kieran refused to cry. He’d forgotten how to think, talk, and came to a point where he simply existed. When he was released from his straitjacket, allowed to walk around outside for ten minutes of the day, he couldn’t. Simple tasks like walking, moving, were far too difficult.

Lauren would occasionally see Kieran outside, leaning down to hold a dandelion in his hand, or smelling a blooming tulip. Whenever she did, she tore her eyes away, ran, and tried not to cry.

The Purple Hyacinth, a wilting flower, was reduced to near-nothing.

Ten minutes would soon become eleven over the next week. Eleven, to twelve, and so forth, until the number capped at fifteen. Kieran would cherish those few moments in the hot, simmering sun. At one point, he plucked free a little, swaying daisy, its many white petals seeming to dance in the wind. The only thought in mind was how pretty it was, how Lauren might like it.

Kieran could take it with him, back into the Tower of Ardhalis, up the stairs, past the screaming prisoners, the taunting criminals, the mocking and ridicule. It stayed by his side, all as he sat back down on the empty, stone floor, watching the door to his all-too-familiar cell slam shut in his foresight.

“A wilting flower,” Kieran whispered that afternoon. It was the same thing he whispered the next afternoon, and the next after that, watching the bright white fade to black. 

Closing his eyes, Kieran set back his head. Before he fell asleep for the nth time, knowing it was night only by the coldness, he depicted Lauren’s face. Her smile, her grin. The proudness and confidence in her voice, when she declared she’d return. The way she walked, strided, glanced around.

Even though the image was now beginning to fade from his mind, he still smiled at it.

“Another road that we must travel,” Kieran said, his withering voice heard by nobody except him. 

The following day, Lauren, Kym, and William had gone out together, laughing and playing. The bustling streets had long since felt afraid of lingering murder.

Kym grabbed Will’s arms and practically spun him around, leading the way to…

Lauren wasn’t quite sure where they were going, but she laughed and jumped and played along regardless. It’d been a long while since she could rest from painfully swimming, the soreness in her muscles burning through her soul.

Murmuring to himself, just as he dozed off again that day, Kieran stared blankly at the ground. “Another night for you to show me the way.”

Five months had passed. Kieran’s routine was the same, every  _ damned _ day. He tried looking around during his free time, gazing down the streets, but he’d always be forced to look away. He couldn’t find Lauren, not anymore, if he even had before.

Lauren was long gone, switching shifts, finding a new place to be.

Five months and two weeks. Kieran changed his schedule from blankly staring and occasionally exercising to blankly staring once again. As another, punished guard came to feed him, he raised his head without any assistance.

“Daring today, are we?” the guard barked, snarling at it. Despite the pride clear in their voice, they still trembled at the realization Kieran could move. He was unarmed, stripped of everything — his weapons, his clothes, his dignity, and still, his shadowed face and devilish eyes were feared.

Kieran wanted to argue back, perhaps even fight, but he simply huffed and remained silent during the feeding. When all was silent, all the guards leaving and discussing gossip between themselves, he sang again. To himself, after all these days.

Quietly, depressingly, “so today, I gave up dreaming.”

He huddled up against himself, hugging his knees; “now I know, I need you everyday,” Kieran murmured. Voices he hadn’t known existed until now tore at his mind.

Before, they weren’t quite so audible. Harsh. He’d shrugged them off as the other prisoners below him, but now, he recognized the voices. Words. Screams, last ushers before they’d been killed. His victims, those unfortunate enough to be killed by him, those unfortunate enough to stare him, dead in the eyes, and see the blankness as he slit their throats.

The whistling cries, sobs. The sounds of the dead. Ghosts that tore at his soul.

Six months. Half a year. 

“Where do all the rainbows go?” Kieran quietly sighed. 

The next day, when Kieran was fed, the bringer fell to an argument with the other guards. They were trying desperately to cut a chunk of hard, old meat with a flimsy knife, frustrated that it could probably cut their finger but not food. Eventually, all four left, locking the door behind them and forgetting about Kieran entirely.

Probably cut their finger, huh?

When they remembered, the bringer had been swapped with another fool. Their complaints and shouts were heard from behind the thick walls, arguing they refused to go into the cell with an assassin that might have a knife. After being reassured that tasers would be provided, and that open fire would be legally fine, they entered.

Hit with a pungent smell of rotting blood, Kieran was lying on the ground, slightly twitching. He gasped, choking, his eyes wide open for the first time since he’d been locked away. From his arm, a horrific wound was drooling and gushing old blood. It has been wrapped with part of Kieran’s shirt, revealing a far-too-skinny man’s chest, but that wasn’t enough.

All along the walls, the same messages Lauren had seen were repeated.

Please.

Don’t kill her.

Don’t hurt her.

Kill me instead.

Please.

Kill me.

_ Just kill me. _

From areas where Kieran had slipped or fumbled, his bloodied hands unable to grasp a firm grip, his smeared handprints were clearly seen. That week, Kieran had been deprived of his fifteen minutes outside, spending time at a hospital ward and weaving psychiatric visits between it.

Seven months. He healed decently enough.

For what was hopefully the last time, guards came into the lonely, empty cell, seeing that Kieran was still lying down, where he’d nearly bled out to death a month before.

“You’re a lucky fellow, Kieran White!” a guard screeched, grabbing Kieran by the other arm and dragging him free. The loud words should’ve broken his eardrums, but he’d gotten used to screams in his ears. Echoes in his mind. “Capital punishment’s back on the charts, and you’re first up!”

“Yay,” Kieran dully replied, his cheer meek and dead.

“Yay indeed,” the guard said.

A wilted flower.

That’s all Kieran was.

That’s all he’d ever be. You couldn’t return a wilting flower back to its blooming state.

The sun was held high in the sky, as high as it’s ever been. Above thick clouds, it seemed to try and hide behind a blanket of rain and storms. However, it was clear that this bright day would have no rain. No need for black umbrellas or weeping passersby. None would fall to their shaky knees and cry for Kieran.

A boiling sun didn’t drive away an ecstatic crowd. Intrigued to the set-up platform, others who had no idea of today’s event were drawn in.

An executioner impatiently sat on a wooden stool. Wearing a mask and a thick, covering outfit, they weren’t planning on much. In fact, as they tested a heavy, metal axe, bouncing it hand-to-hand, they were still debating on what method would be best.

Decapitation was too generous. It would be a quick death, even if Kieran could survive for just a few, scarce moments after. Lethal injection was too expensive. Electrocution… no, that was too beautiful and poetic for a monster. Shot? No…

Then, the idea came to mind. 

Hanging.

Perfect.

Lauren was one of many in the crowd. She heard the cheers, their liveliness, and desperately tried to match them. However, realizing that the frail being dragged along the wooden steps, across the fresh boards, was none other than Kieran White, she simply wanted to  _ cry _ .

Kieran stared at the ground, unable to face elsewhere. He took a brief scour of the crowd, finding Lauren’s face there just as he had when he left his apartment all those months ago. He tried, weakly, to plead, once again; “ _ please _ ,” he illy gasped, “ _ just one minute _ .” 

One minute was all he needed.

Again, he was either ignored or unheard. Kieran’s frail, starved body was heaved, forced to stand by itself. The executioner hovered nearby, walking over with the hefty axe in hand. 

Pushing her way to the front of the crowd, Lauren knew she wouldn’t watch Kieran’s head be taken off. No, Kieran would have to lie down, and be pressed against the ground. Here, he was standing on a chair.

The executioner whispered something into Kieran’s ears; they continued to whisper as they looped the rope around the Purple Hyacinth’s neck, as they tied the hangman’s knot. A cheer rioted through the crowds, tearing through the city.

_ Ardhalis will be gleeful to watch you die, _ the executioner whispered.  _ All will drink and toast to your final death _ .

Kieran gazed upon the crowd, a tiny hope in him wishing to see Lauren’s face once again. He hadn’t seen it in so long, the image vague and blurred in his mind. Just as he brushed over her, just as he saw Lauren’s desperate eyes, the golden irises shining and clear —

The executioner raised Kieran’s chin, running a finger beneath his eyes. 

“The flower’s been left to wither away,” they remarked cruelly, their loud voice threatening to break Kieran’s head. With all the noise, the ex-assassin may as well have broken their skull. “Now, I rip out the roots and snap the stem!”

Another cheer. Deafening roars. 

In it, Kieran could only hear the same screams he’s heard these past few months, the same ones that begged and pleaded. The final words of those he’s killed. Those he’s slaughtered like pigs; those he’s tortured, those whose deaths were dragged out for mere amusement. Now, he was in their shoes, facing what they had.

A cruel karma.

Abruptly, before Kieran could get his thoughts together, the chair he’d been standing on was yanked away. He started kicking wildly, confused, trying to find footing — he gasped, heaved, choked. 

Something latched onto his neck, mauling it, trying to tear away his flesh.

Tears, the tears he’d been trying so hard to suppress, flowed freely down his face. Clawing desperately at his neck, at the rope, he tried to break free. His nails, chewed away to mere numbs, broke and bled. 

His wild, gouging eyes popped out of his skull, bare wheezes scraping at his throat.

_ No, no, not like this _ , Kieran desperately pleaded. Frantic thoughts flailed about his mind. None latched on.

_ Not like this, please… _

_ One minute… _

One minute.

One minute was all he needed.

Tiredness kicked in. 

Tiredness of physical exhaustion. Tiredness of trying to cope, tired of trying to  _ try _ , tired of thinking and believing and hoping that he could see the end of the rainbow; Kieran stopped. 

The stalking demon held onto Kieran’s throat. It’s sharp claws dug into his flesh, past all the layers. Dragged at blood. It’s burning touch tore away his soul with skin. Maybe, maybe, the demon could slash the ropes and let his limp body collapse against the ground.

Kieran’s hands fell by his side. His fingers fragmented and torn, they might as well have been painted over. 

_ Just one minute. _

There was a dying man inside of Kieran who wanted, far too desperately, to be decapitated, instead. To break free, to see Lauren’s face, to see her in the crowd. One last moment.

Lauren, now far too close, could see Kieran’s twitching body cease its movements. She tried to cover her eyes, but still peeked between her splayed fingers; the gruesome scene was still Kieran’s scene, and it was Kieran’s last moments. Alas, he was put on display, treated like an animal, his death only a show. Treated like the animal he’d treated others.

Kieran’s heat-of-the-moment panic dimmed down to a giving up. He couldn’t breathe, strangled by the same demons he’d tried to strangle all those years ago. 

At least dead people didn’t need to breathe.

Breathless, scared, and harshly shaking, Lauren felt the need to cry, herself. Just as Kieran White’s body froze, barely moving, his throat torn out, she released a small whisper; “I love you, too, Kieran,” Lauren Sinclair murmured. Words that he’d never hear, words that he’d been grasping for.

As Lauren left the scene, trying to escape it and flee from the sight of it — of Kieran’s bulging eyes, the tears, the blood, the way he was so distraught and distressed and yet so unmoving — she wondered if, maybe, in the end, in  _ his _ end, it was better he didn’t see her.

What if Kieran spent those last moments trying to find her in the crowd?

Trying to do what he’d been trying to for six months, to look for her. To see her face.

And maybe he’d notice that Lauren put on her betraying, officer mask at that time, and realize that Lauren never wanted to be here. Never wanted to see him, not even in his dying moments.

“I still couldn’t look you in the eyes,” Lauren murmured, hugging herself. It was a bright, sunny day, but she felt herself shivering. Cold sweat was trapped beneath her clothing. Her tears couldn’t be held back, as if they were a coursing river that broke a suffocating dam.

No, not suffocating.

No more suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” Lauren weakly gasped, a hiccup trapped in her throat. “I’m so sorry…”

The dead couldn’t hear her, and neither could she. 


End file.
